THE BELL RINGS.
Two persons who are nearly concerned in the revelation made by Mr. Sharp
to Robert Ford, now demand our attention.
First, Mr. Rand, who, upon a sick-bed, worn-out by anxiety and bodily
weakness, is fast drifting towards that unseen world, where all that is
dark and mysterious here will be disclosed, and we shall know even as we
are known. The second, is Lewis Rand, his unworthy nephew, whose whole
soul is absorbed by the eager desire to secure to himself his uncle’s
large fortune. Why this thirst for gold should so have possessed him, is
not so clear. It was not that his habits were extravagant, for such was
not the case. He was no voluptuary, at least not in the lowest sense of
the word. It was not for the mere love of money that he craved it. He
was elevated above the mere miser; but money was valuable to him for the
power which it conferred, and the consequence which it gave. Lewis
Rand’s ambition had taken this form. He desired to be known everywhere
as the possessor of a princely fortune. He wished others to fawn upon
him as he had fawned upon his uncle. As his dependence had compelled him
to remain in a subordinate position, he wished others to become
subordinates to him. Money he must have, somehow. So for years he had
labored to establish and strengthen his position as his uncle’s heir.
The inheritance which he craved, would make him at once a millionnaire.
As a general who has fortified a city, so as to make it, as he
considers, impregnable, and at the last discovers a weak place which
endangers the whole, exerts all his energy and all the resources which
he can command to counteract the danger, so Lewis had, as we have seen,
set in motion certain agencies, through which he hoped to avert the
peril which menaced him in his cousin’s presence.
“Have you received no letters in answer to the advertisement, Lewis?”
asked Mr. Rand, feebly.
“No, uncle, none whatever.”
Mr. Rand sighed, and fell back upon his pillow.
The crimson bed-curtains were drawn apart, revealing the thin and wasted
form of the old man. Thinner and more attenuated he grew day by day.
Each day the result of the struggle for life became less doubtful. A
strong desire for life might have given the needed stimulus to the vital
functions, and turned the scale against death, but the sick man had
ceased to desire it.
None saw this more clearly than Lewis. With his cold, searching eye he
had followed the slow advances of the destroyer. Not a word, however,
had escaped him. How he trembled when the lamp of life burned for a
time with a steadier radiance, lest, perchance, it might prove a
harbinger of ultimate recovery; and when the momentary glow had
departed, and the lamp burned so low that it seemed near its final
extinction, he breathed more freely, and a glow of triumph lighted up
his dark features,—features that might the next moment wear a look of
the deepest sympathy. For Lewis had schooled them to obey the dictates
of his will, and had not fear that they would betray him. He was a
gamester who had staked his all upon a single venture, and was
watching the chances with intense eagerness.
Morning after morning as he stole to his uncle’s bedside, it was with a
secret hope veiled under an appearance of the greatest solicitude, that
he might find the struggle ended. Each day he hoped might prove the
last,—that from his heart the burden of anxiety and the weariness of
waiting might at once and forever be lifted.
Fortunate was it for the old man’s peace, that he could not read this
wicked wish in the eyes that were bent upon him. There was little fear.
Could he conceive it possible that one whom he had long regarded with an
affection second only to that which he bore his own son, who all his
life long had never ceased to receive his bounty; could he dream that
Lewis was capable of cherishing in his heart a hope so unnatural? So far
from this, the faintest shadow of distrust had never entered his uncle’s
thoughts. In his face he read nothing but sympathy and compassion. Mr.
Lewis Rand, could you but sound the depth of wickedness in your own
heart, could you drag it forth to the light and survey it in all its
deformity, how would even your hardened nature shrink aghast and
horror-stricken? Heaven only knows with what a web of sophistry you
excuse this treachery of the heart. Could this be rent away, you could
hardly stand as calmly as you do by the bedside of that old man, belying
in your heart the filial words that fall so glibly from your tongue. Can
you who have the power to bring happiness and peace to that bedside, and
its unhappy occupant, who can bring the light of joy to those eyes soon
to close forever, and repair a great injustice, still refuse to do it?
There may come a time, whether near or remote, Heaven alone knows, when
you would give all the wealth for which you are scheming if you had only
done it.
On receiving a negative answer to his question, Mr. Rand remained for
some time silent, with his face turned to the wall.
“It would be a great relief,” he sighed, wearily, “if I could but see my
son once before I die.”
“When will he be done harping on his son?” muttered Lewis to himself.
“He seems determined to torment me with it.”
He said aloud, with a proper display of emotion, “Do not speak of dying,
uncle. You will yet recover.”
“Never, Lewis, never. There is something that tells me this sickness
will be my last. My feet will soon enter the dark valley of the shadow
of death. I have reached the age set by the Psalmist as the limit of
human life. Even your kind solicitude cannot call me back from the grave
that awaits me.”
“I should be very sorry if it did,” was the unspoken thought of Lewis,
as he replied, covering his face with his handkerchief, as if to conceal
his emotion, “you are—you must be deceived; you are looking brighter
to-day.”
“Lewis, your hopes deceive you. On the contrary, I never felt weaker
than I do to-day. I have never felt more entirely satisfied of the
hopelessness of my situation. Yet why do I say ‘hopelessness?’ I do not
fear death. Rather I welcome it as a friend. I feel no vain longing for
a continuance of that life which is gliding from my grasp. For the last
few years I have enjoyed too little happiness to make it seem very
attractive. Wealth can do little. Even your kind attentions have failed.
The consciousness of wrong done and unatoned for has followed me all
these years. One wrong act has imbittered all my earthly existence.”
“My dear uncle, I regret that you should dwell upon such painful
thoughts. Even if you were in fault, which I do not believe, you are
agitating yourself now to no purpose.”
“Let me speak now, Lewis. The thought is always with me, and I am
relieved by speaking. Never, Lewis, suffer yourself to be led hastily
into a wrong act—never, as you value your soul’s peace. The thought will
come back to you in after years, and never leave you; you may surround
yourself with all that wealth can give, even as I have done, and your
heart will still be an aching void into which no thought of joy or
happiness shall enter. When you are on your death-bed, as I am now, you
will feel how inestimable above all things else is that peace of mind
which comes from a clear conscience and an unblemished life.”
Standing thus at his uncle’s bedside, with more than one sin unexpiated
upon his soul, could Lewis listen unmoved to words which gained so deep
a significance from this utterance by a dying man? Even he felt vaguely
uncomfortable as he listened, mingled with an angry impatience which,
however, he dared not betray.
“I feel a deep conviction,” continued Mr. Rand, “that Robert is still
living. I cannot tell whence it comes, but of nothing am I more
thoroughly persuaded. I had hoped that the advertisement would prove
effectual in finding him out. You are sure that you caused its insertion
in papers of the largest circulation?”
“I have followed your directions, uncle,” said Lewis, unblushingly,
“notwithstanding my fear that it would lead to nothing.”
“You did right, Lewis. After I am gone, I wish you to continue the
advertisement. Your cousin will see it sooner or later. I am quite sure
of that. And when after a time he comes back to you, I wish you to see
that the provisions of my will are carried out. I will not claim your
promise. I know that you will do so.”
Lewis bowed, but forebore to speak.
“That is not all. You must tell him, Lewis, how I have sought for him,
and how with a sorrowful heart I deplored my own injustice, from which
he cannot have suffered more than I. You may tell him that I forgive him
if he feels that there is anything to forgive, in the hope that he will
forgive me who need it so much more. You will tell him all this, Lewis?”
“Can you doubt it, uncle?” asked Lewis, evasively.
“No, Lewis, I have perfect confidence in you. You never have deceived
me, and you will not begin now; and, Lewis, you must try to atone to
Robert, in my stead, for the wrong he has suffered. Never let your
affection for me persuade you that it was not a wrong. I would far
rather have you think harshly of me, than unjustly of your cousin.”
“I will endeavor to obey you even in that, hard though it be,” said
Lewis.
At that moment the quiet of the sick-chamber was broken in by a sharp
peal of the door-bell. It was so unusual an occurrence in that solitary
household, that it startled both.